Just putzing around...

[rabidsamfan]

The King was crowned, and feted and praised, but he was not rested, and Prince Imrahil looked upon his new lord and saw that no rest would yet come to him. “What troubles you, Elessar?” he asked softly, grateful to have rank high enough to dispense with courtesies he suspected would not be welcome in this mood.

Aragorn stopped his pacing and considered. “I am restless,” he said. “And yet I cannot go outside these doors without raising a great fuss. And I am weary of fusses, Imrahil. How have you stood them all your days?”

“By escaping them now and then of course,” Imrahil said. “And I was no Ranger to go quietly. Let me call Faramir to you, for he will know all the ways of this house. And all the ways out of it as well.”

Faramir was restless too, and met the summons with a glad heart, for Eowyn was sitting up with her brother, talking, and he had no wish to disturb their reunion. But having only met the Lord Aragorn once before the coronation, and having been too ill to take much notice then, he checked his appearance in a mirror before going to the king’s rooms.

Imrahil met him in the antechamber. “The king is restless, cousin,” he said. “Where did you put the other Walkers?”

“In a house on the next level – one with gardens of its own, where they might go and sit without being disturbed,” Faramir answered.

“Can you bring him to them – quietly? I will stay and keep the questioners at bay.”

Faramir blinked. “But… doesn’t he like the bed? The linens are all aired and clean.”

“He is not ready to sleep, Faramir. And he has had too many ceremonies for one day. Even the Dunedain treat him as if he must keep his dignity or shatter. Bring him to his friends. The hobbits will not forget that he is a man as well as a king.”

For a moment, Faramir heard his brother’s voice, choked with laughter as the two of them had crept out through the buttery door. “We are men as well as we are sons of the Steward, brother,” he’d said, leading his much younger brother to an alehouse on the first level. “Sometimes we need to remember that.”

Aragorn was already changed, into dark leathers and a long, battered coat. “Ah, there you are,” he said to Faramir, tossing him a bundle of cloth. “Imrahil thinks you might know a way past the sentries.”

“I do, my king.”

“Then cover your honors and lead me hence. I need to stretch my legs.”

“Of course, my king.”

“And don’t keep calling me that, or you’ll give us away.”

“What would you prefer?”

The king smiled thoughtfully, “Thorongil,” he said.

Through the dressing room to the servant’s stairs, and thence to the kitchens. The cook stirred when they came in, but at a word from Faramir he produced his keys and opened the buttery. “And what will be your word of entry tonight, youngster?” he asked, tactfully pretending that he did not see the other tall figure.

Faramir cast his eye around the kitchen, “Ladle,” he said.

“Aye. Three knocks and then two to wake me up, and don’t stay out til morning,” the cook said, waving them out.

The king followed, eying the buttery door. It was ancient and thick, and without a key it would have held off any but a determined enemy, but it was not guarded.

“The lock’s magic,” Faramir explained. “Only the cook can turn the key, and he won’t unless you knock the right knock and know the word for the night. And for some reason the key won’t work from the outside.”

“It was a different key,” Aragorn said absently. He took a deep breath of the warm night air. “Which way?”

Faramir led through the alleys, till they came to the house where the Fellowship was living. There the lights were lit, and the sound of laughter came from inside. Aragorn’s face lit up. “That sounds like Gimli.”

“It should be,” Faramir said. “All your company I have housed here. The gardens are good, although no one yet lives in the house. I offered a guard, but Mithrandir said that none was needed. The whole city guards them.”

“And there is none in the city would dare Gandalf’s wrath, I expect,” said Aragorn, smiling now. It was a pleasant smile, and different from any that Faramir had yet seen on his new king’s face. “Come, let us find out what they’re up to.”

It was Samwise who opened the door and when he saw who was standing there he grabbed for the king’s hand. “Strider! We were just drinking your health and all! Come in, come in. And Captain Faramir,” he put his small hand into Faramir’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world, tugging him inside. “I’m glad to see you too. We had no chance to say hello this afternoon, what with all the grand speeches and all, and I’ve been that worried about you since Merry told us you’d been hurt. And then you never came to the camp all those days.”

“I’m all right now, Master Gamgee,” Faramir said. “I’ve been busy, getting the city ready for today.”

“Well it looked right nice,” Sam said, leading them through the hall and into the kitchen, which was filled with light and people. Merry and Pippin were standing on chairs by the stove, with towels tied around them for aprons. Pippin was holding a plate which Merry occasionally added to, pulling golden brown shapes from a pan of hot fat. The smell of cooking onions and other things made Faramir’s mouth water. Gandalf was presiding over a keg of ale from the stores, and Legolas and Gimli were listening to the Ringbearer sing a song that sounded like it was going to be faintly rude. “Look who’s come, everyone!” Sam announced.

“Strider!” “Aragorn!” “Just who we were missing!” “Gandalf, pour another glass!”

“Lord Faramir!” Merry exclaimed. “Have you come to brave my cooking, then?”

Faramir shook his head, “No, no just to show the K… to show the way.” He started to leave, but Sam didn’t let go.

“Stay a while,” he said. “In your brother’s stead. We ought to be nine.”

Faramir froze, but the small face was friendly and serious. He looked around, but the others were nodding too, even the King, who gave a little turn of his head and smiled. But it was Frodo’s nod that decided him. “All right, then,” he said. “If you want me. Your cooking smells good, Sir Meriadoc.”

“Wait till you see what I’ve brought from the ovens,” Sam said happily, steering him into a chair.

Aragorn’s eyes lit up. “Sam, you never had time to bake yet!”

“Just a pie, and some good brown bread,” Sam said. “No trouble at all,” he went to the sideboard and brought over a plate, covered with a cloth that was nearly large enough to make Faramir want to help him. But he slid it gracefully in front of the King and drew off the cloth. “And a honey cake, o’ course, knowing as how you might like to have one.”

“Honey cake?” Gimli exclaimed, his eyes lighting. “But where did you find the honey?”

“In Ithilien,” Sam said simply. “I thought it might make a nice treat.”

“I too have a treat to share, now that all the Company is together,” Legolas said. He left for a moment and returned with two small bottles. “From Elladan and Elrohir, brought from Rivendell in the hopes that they would be needed for a celebration.”

“Don’t forget my donation,” Frodo said, bringing forth a salad of fresh greens and flowers.

“Can all of the Periannath cook?” asked Faramir, looking at the small feast.

This brought four small sets of eyes to him, bewildered. “If you want to eat you’ve got to cook,” Pippin observed. “Don’t all Men know how?”

“No,” said Aragorn, “As you ought to remember, considering what was said behind my back when I fed you after we left Bree.”

The Halflings all laughed, and Aragorn did too. “You just didn’t wait long enough for the coals, Mr. Strider,” Sam said, reassuringly. “The rest was done fair enough.”

“I thought he just burned our dinner to get Sam to take over the cooking,” Merry laughed. “Not that the rest of us minded. Any hobbit can cook, but baking is an art.”

“Sam learned to bake from Bilbo,” Frodo said. “I remember the two of them being thick as thieves in the kitchen while I had to study.”

“’Twas in the kitchen Mr. Bilbo taught me my letters,” Sam said contentedly. “And how to make honey cakes, as well. He’d learned how from old Beorn, that he met on his adventures and brought back the recipe and I don’t know how many times I wrote it out on my slate.”

“Well I’m not bringing back the recipe for half-cooked coney,” Pippin said, fervently, diverting the rest of them from any thought of what else Bilbo had brought back with him.

And over the laughter, and the bustle of hobbits setting plates and spoons around the table, Gandalf passed mugs of ale down to Aragorn and Faramir. “You’ll have to catch up with the rest of us,” he warned. “We’ve already begun.”


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